License to bleed
by Jabberwocky The Wolf
Summary: John comes home to find Sherlock submitting to an old addiction... Selfharm don't like don't read. Oh look it's turned in to Johnlock... oops... notsorryreally:)
1. Chapter 1

**I'm back! From my year long break… woah no posts or anything since January… Just been busy with life. Yeah this isn't as good as it could be but it's late and I want to practice writing before I start up anything else again. Thank you for reading. Sherlock always came across to me as a cutter. Maybe if I continue it will most definitely turn in to Johnlock haha…**

Sherlock hissed as the blade pressed against his skin. The metal was cold, like ice against his warm flesh but he had to do this. He gritted his teeth. It had been too long, they had begun to fade… The urge was too strong this time, screaming at him. His body ached for it. He had to cut… he NEEDED to. His arm was too bare, his boredom too great.

He sat – or rather slumped- in his chair. The quietness of the flat was driving him insane. John had been gone for ages. Now he was sitting with a knife at his arm, submitting to an old addiction he had visited many times before and had hoped never to return to.

He pressed down harder on the knife and dragged across his naked snow white arm. Outside London hummed. The drone of normal life irritated him. Made him feel sick. The world was moving too slow for his liking. Everyone slow, stupid, wasting away, their pitiful existence revolving around sleeping eating and working. He wasn't like that. He was different, he was special. And they hated him for it. Why didn't they understand?! It's not so hard really.

The anger spurred him on and he added more pressure to the knife. Dragging more firmly across his arm a droplet of red blood seeped to the surface. Then another, soon they joined creating a pretty line of neat red across his arm. His heart rate slowed all the thoughts that were whirling round his head at a million miles an hour slowed to a steady rate. He let out a breath of relief. For a few seconds he was at peace. The world caught up to him. He was okay. But it was quickly over as he scowled at the small cut. The blood had started to dribble down his arm; he resisted the urge to wipe it. He sat there; admiring it. The way the colour looked so violent against his skin.

It wasn't deep enough. It never was. Gritting his teeth again he set the knife inside the cut and pressed dragging I out longer, this time he felt it, a stinging sensation rippled through his arm and through his body. He let a groan escape through his pressed lips but it didn't deter him. He concentrated on the pain. He kept pressing until the small knife was dripping with blood, oozing with the thick liquid. He felt relief wash over him. He lean his arm over the arm of his chair and let the knife drop to the floor. He barely heard the sound of it drop. Everything was dull now, just the pain remained. His old friend, his comfort when he came home from school limping, his while body battered and smothered in bruises from boys who were just trying to "toughen him up". Where he would lay on his bed unable to cry tears he so badly wanted to cry. He was broken. Dying inside. Rejected from everyone. Everything. He numbed them all out, he didn't have any choice. If he didn't he would only get hurt all over again. What was the point in letting people in only for them to shut you out? His only comfort was in the blades that let him bleed out what he was feeling inside. _If others could hurt him then he could hurt himself._

He remembered the rush of his first cut, the constant urge he had since then pulling at him at the slightest thing. The panic of his scars fading, the redness going… those were the worst feelings.

He opened his eyes mid thought to look at his arm. Blood was trickling down to his finger tips now. He couldn't stop a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Something about seeing the blood made him light up inside-

"Sherlock?!" came a shocked and horrified yelp from the doorway.

Sherlock jerked, his whole body trembled and he whipped his arm behind his back. Angry but flustered, he couldn't stop himself from blushing, his body was now hot with emotion. John stood in the doorway, key in hand mouth wide open and a hurt, confused expression on his face. Sherlock felt something in him stir, he didn't like seeing John like this… he wasn't supposed to find out…

This could take some explaining.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey so, reviews make me happy. Um let me know if this seems rough, it's pretty late right now so it probably is. Thanks for reading. **

Sherlock sat slumped in his chair still, staring emptily in to the distance. His eyes avoiding John's, his arm was bound tight in a fresh white bandage. His scars were covered and it was taking every little part of his being and strength not to rip it off, for John's sake. He could hear questions being spat at him. He wasn't angry though…-which was strange- but sad and confused. Why would he care so much anyway? Who would care about a freak like him? The lights were now on in the flat, giving everything seemingly new perspective. It all semed so much less sinister in the light. But shadows stared from the walls, exaggerated limbs and

He was itching to cut again. The humiliation of being caught doing something so private and personal made him feel like his cheeks were on fire.

"Sherlock?"

He winced. The pain in John's voice hit him like a slap in the face. That was weird. Was Sherlock feeling… bad?

Why should he? It's his business if he wants to sink back in to something he found comfort in. John wouldn't understand. He probably had a nice life, happy family. He just wouldn't understand something like this-

Then he remembered. He fought in the war; he'd seen brutal massacre, then come home to an empty apartment, struggling to support his alcoholic sister, completely alone and nothing to look foreword to but a therapist's appointment maybe a few times. He hadn't turned to something like this… That must mean he was weak to succumb to this. He didn't have any problems other than bad memories and a hungry boredom.

"Sherlock please say something!" Sighed John. "Please I can get you help-"

"I don't WANT help!" snarled Sherlock.

He looked up to John. Jerking out of his chair and towering above him. Slender figure bathed in moonlight, his dark hair wild and tousled. This time John seemed to wither back in his chair as Sherlock's eyes bore in to his. He looked away, hot under his glare.

"There's nothing wrong with me. It's just stress relief." Sherlock breathed out, walking over to the window, watching the general hum of London pass by. Anything to avoid John's agonised stare.

"I-I just don't know what to say-"

"Don't say anything then." Growled Sherlock, venom dripping from his already deep tone. John looked away, trying to hold back the… what? Anger? Frustration? He couldn't tell. He didn't want help… what could he do? He felt his eyes wandering to the bandage. He remembered bandaging the arm, wiping off all the blood that drenched his arm. Sherlock barely flinched, how long had he been doing this? Months? Years?

After a while of sitting in the awkward silence John got up to go to bed, glancing one last time at Sherlock who was still sulking looking out of the window. He felt at a loss. He didn't know what he wanted, how to help. His heart screamed at him to do something… _anything. _Surely there had to be something-

He shook his head. There was nothing. You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. He stifled a yawn and rubbed his forehead. Striding in to his room without a word he closed his door, clicking it shut and sliding in to the cold lonely sheets he pushed his screaming conscience to the furthest corner of his mind and tried to sleep.

Sherlock heard the bedroom door of John's room click shut and frowned. His arm was now aching, crying out in agony but he was used to this. He liked the pain and savoured it. He considered cutting again but something stopped him, a flash of John's distraught and confused face flashed in his mind and he felt a horrible guilty feeling in the pit of his gut. He hadn't felt THAT in a while… interesting. But… the way John's face was… it was so pained…

The feeling grew stronger. Then it sounded again. That little voice in the back of his head, reasoning with him;

_You've hurt the only person in this world who accepts you. Now look what you've done. You're a freak, how could you do something so stupid? He'll never see you the same. He sees you the way they all see you… a weirdo. Heartless. Machine. Soulless_.

He cringed, letting out a pained whimper. It was right… he couldn't cut… he didn't have the guts for that strangely. He swept in to the kitchen and went through the cupboards. Nothing at all he could indulge himself in… well almost nothing…

John sat up, he slapped a hand over his mouth as a small yelp of horror escaped his mouth. He growled. _"Pull yourself together John."_ He mumbled to himself. _"You were a soldier you can handle a few bumps in the night…"_ Then it came again, another crash, closer now. He strained his ears; something that sounded like slurred mumbling came from the hallway. Sherlock? He groaned and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up from his dreamless sleep. He slid out of bed, the freezing air of the flat gnawed at his exposed skin and he grabbed his dressing gown, sliding it on he stumbled out in to the hallway, almost crashing in to the doorframe.

"S-Sherlock?" he muttered.

He saw Sherlock, grabbling at the wall in the hallway, trying desperately to keep balance, but failing and letting his knees buckle under his drunken weight he slid to his knees. Muttering darkly, his dark midnight curls fell over his face. Fists clenched and unclenching, his bandage unravelled, gash in his arm naked and sore.

He sat there staring at it, muttering.

"Sherlock?" whispered John, slowly inching his way closer to him.

Sherlock continued to whimper, staring blankly at his gash.

John moved closer until he was standing directly over him; staring down at the crumbled bloody drunken man on the floor, he felt his heart break slightly, cracking at the sight of someone he loved so much completely defeated by a blade and a few voiced in his head.

"Not deep enough…" he whimpered.

John bent down until he was on his knees, staring at Sherlock's curls.

"Never deep enough-"his voice cracked.

John felt a pang of shock and hurt. He sounded so… weak. He'd never broken down like this, John swallowed hard.

"Sherlock-" he spoke with more confidence in his voice, he couldn't let this continue.. right?

"Why you?!" Sherlock snapped his head upwards suddenly; his eyes met his and the intensity of his glare intrigued and scared John.

"Why do I care that I hurt you?!" he kept glaring, he barely even blinked, John shifted uncomfortably. It felt like he was setting his soul on fire.

"I've never cared about hurting anyone in my life… why do I care about hurting you?!"

John gulped, his face growing hot. This man of deduction, this powerful mind had emotionally collapsed in front of him, he was dangerously close to coming how much he actually felt for him-

Suddenly, with great passion and force Sherlock shoved John on to his back, John was winded for a few seconds, and his whole body jerked with surprise and he let a groan escape his lips. Sherlock was steadily hovering above I'm, both arms above his head, face dangerously close to his, He could smell the heavy alcohol on his breath. He didn't hold back the urge for his eyes to wander to Sherlock's lips, stained slightly with red wine. Gulping it down too greedily… anything to keep his mind off the cutting- Great. Now he was deducing. His eyes flew up to Sherlock's blue icy glare. His heart pounded, hammering against his chest, ready to explode clean out of him. A million words buzzed through his head. Questions any sobered and not at all sleep deprived John would ask.

_What are you doing? You never drink Sherlock- What the hell is going on?!_

"John."

His voice was so fragile, like he could collapse at any second in to a bloody mess of tangled matted curls. John blushed at the thought of Sherlock collapsing on to him-

He opened his mouth to say something but his throat was completely dry. He didn't protest when Sherlock began to nuzzle in to the crook of his neck, whimpering softly.

"Please John-" he begged. Causing John to go redder. "Please make the voices STOP." John couldn't help himself; he ran a hand through Sherlock's silky black mane and buried his head in it.

"I can try Sherlock." He slid his hand down to his cheekbone and stroked it softly.

"Right now though I think you need some sleep-"

Sherlock let out a wail of protest but staggered up with John's help.

"Maybe some sleep will do you good-"

It was at that point he was violently shoved in to the hallway wall. He gritted his teeth and let out a groan.

"No." growled Sherlock violently.

John let a shiver work its way down his spine; his voice was rich, oozing sex. He could feel his chest heaving, trying to catch his breath again. Sherlock was very forceful when he wanted to be.

Again their faces were inches apart, John's face light with a blush. Though he could feel a pleasurable feeling working its way in the pit of his gut, he was enjoying this. Being shoved around by Sherlock, he hated to admit it but he did.

"I think… I need a doctor." Smirked Sherlock, Leaning in John couldn't find it in him to resist, his lips locked on Sherlock's and they collided, Sherlock pressed his hands against Johns wrists, pinning him to the wall. John was secured but barely noticed as his tongue slipped in and explored Sherlock's mouth. All he could hear was the muffled breathing of Sherlock and the taste of red wine that entered his mouth.

Mid kiss Sherlock smirked and without warning crashed his hips against John's. His eyes widened and let out a small moan of pleasure; surprised at Sherlock's outgoingness. He felt Sherlock's body completely push against him. He loved it, the way he felt against his skin, the way his lips were, it was like dream.

Sherlock drew away, hips still slightly attached to John's.

"Goodnight John." He smiled playfully

And as if nothing at all happened slipped in to his bedroom, slamming his door shut.

John stood breathless in the hallway, trembling, excited and whimpering, but now confused.

"Y- You can't do that!" he squeaked angrily. He started to hammer on Sherlock's door.

"You can't just leave me like this!"

"I think you'll find I can actually."

John stood there; angry and dumbfounded. Of all the things Sherlock had struck him as, a tease was never one of them. But there wasn't much he could do. So stumbling back to his bedroom he crawled under the duvets and tried to sleep off the strangeness of the past few minuets.


	3. Chapter 3

**Dear life; why do you get in the way of everything? Important things like eating sleeping and writing fanficion? Ugh. Sorry this is rushed. Next one will be sooo much better promise. **

John stumbled in to the kitchen. Disregarding the time it was. The sun was drizzling in through the window in the living room, setting the whole room in an angelic early morning glow. He stood blankly in the kitchen for a while, lost, without purpose. Sherlock was still asleep in his room. He didn't really know what to expect after last night's… incident. Should he bring it up? Should he just leave it?

The sound of nothing but the steady based heartbeat of a clock in the living room, Calling out a gradual tick with every agonising second that went by. He thought of making a coffee but didn't know if he would be able to stomach something so strong. .His gut was doing somersaults, would Sherlock hate him? He had kissed him back after all…

The door of Sherlock's room flew open and Sherlock stood in his doorway, hair tousled, wild and messy from a deep sleep. His arm bare, cut bare and red. His eyes were covered by the midnight curls that fell around his face and he growled up at John. Who stood there, clutching the kitchen counter with everything he had. He was a soldier; he had braved many horrors and hells of war. But it took a head full of silky black curls and a pair of icy blue eyes to crack his heart in to a million shattered pieces.

"Good morning Sherlock."

His voice faltered. It wasn't supposed to do that. It was supposed to sound brave and sure and sturdy. It barely came out a squeak; A question more than a statement.

"It is?" sneered Sherlock. His voice cold.

John felt himself wincing on the inside, but his outside betrayed nothing at all.

He merely rolled his eyes and watched as Sherlock, clutching his dark blue dressing gown to his frail hung-over figure, stumble around the kitchen in search of caffeine. He was stronger than John and could handle it better and earlier in the morning.

John cleared his throat and proceeded to hover, which was something he never seemed to do. He was a military man., A man of precision and timing and accuracy. If he didn't need to be somewhere he wouldn't be. But indeed here he was hovering. Of course he was. Why wouldn't he be?

He went to slink back in to his bedroom unnoticed but this was unsuccessful.

"John?"

He physically winced at his voice, remembering the way he spoke last night, so vulnerable…he one that had called for him numerous times.

"Y-yes Sherlock?" replied John, covering for his nervousness with a yawn. Maybe he would think he was tired or something…

"What happened last night? Anything bad? I can't really remember most of it-"

"Nothing. No. You just mumbled some stuff and went to bed." His voice was calm. Words abrupt to keep the agony in his voice undetected. He didn't remember, not one moment. All those precious seconds of their lips locked together... fluttered away from Sherlock's memory and they never existed. He had lived through a war, fought in bloodshed and battle and seen things that made him thirst for more violence, but it took a few words and fleeting passionate kisses to break his heart in to a million pieces.

He swiftly turned on his foot and slammed his door shut. Not being able to hold in his emotions any longer.

Sherlock stared after John's quick escape it seemed. Why did he seem so… flustered? When the topic of last nights drunken episode came up his face grew red and he tried to cover his awkwardness with a yawn so obviously something uncomfortable. He frowned. The pounding headache he had wouldn't let him deduce anymore. Again he was reminded exactly why de didn't drink in the first place.

He pondered what to do. He didn't like seeing John like this. Well that and maybe if he was nice he could squeeze some information about what really happened last night out of him. ..

John couldn't hear anything else; feel anything else but Sherlock's heavy breathing and the hands that were kneading his crotch. Waves of pure pleasure made his body tremble in delight and grab Sherlock's silky curls tighter. He felt Sherlock's hands slow and almost yelled in angst.

"S-Sherlock please d-don't stop-" he whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. He cracked an eye open to see Sherlock's arrogant lazy smirk.

"You know that's not how we ask is it John?"

John squirmed. His erection throbbing, he was in agony. Were did Sherlock learn to be such a bloody tease?!

"I-I'm not going to beg you…"

"Oh I think we both know THAT isn't true…" purred Sherlock burying himself in John's neck and teasingly running his fingers over the bulge in his pants.

John was panting, whimpering and trembling. Completely at Sherlock's mercy now. Desperate for a release-

"If you wont I will." He growled. Not liking the fact he would have to beg Sherlock for anything.

His hands started to slide down to his crotch but Sherlock snarled and grabbing his wrists slammed them above his head. Icy glare staring right in to John until he thought he would crumble.

"John…" he muttered darkly.

He gritted his teeth and moaned. Even his voice drove him crazy.

"John!" This cry seemed louder, out of place, out of reality. He felt walls around him crumble and the warmth of Sherlock's hands body and presence dissolve and vanish and reality bleed in through his eyes.

"John!" He sat up in bead, dazed and confused. He looked around his room and groaned. It wasn't real. Of course it wasn't. He rubbed the back of his neck and growled. His laptop let off a small casual hum and the screen lay black. He must have fallen asleep reading or something. His mind was so frazzled he couldn't really remember. His body was still aching for Sherlock's touch. He quickly pushed these thoughts to the back of his head when he heard his name called again. He slid off his bed and stumbled in to the living room.

"What is it Sherlock?"

"You were lying."

"What?"

Sherlock looked up from his newspaper; eyes scanning the obviously flustered as well as unexpectedly woken man in front of him.

"I'm not stupid something obviously happened last night and your not telling me."

John couldn't stop colour rushing to his cheeks and in a desperate attempt not to trip over his words he carefully said;

"You just said a few silly things that's all."

"Like what silly things?"

"Forget it! Please just drop it Sherlock." Snapped John unexpectedly, Sherlock refused to be deterred by this small sudden outburst. It just fascinated him. Obviously rousing him from a deep nap wouldn't lure out the answers, now matter how flustered or dazed he was. He had underestimated him.

As he watched John yawn and shuffle back in to his room he let a smirk crawl on his face as he set his fingers under his chin to conjure a plan.


	4. Chapter 4

The bandage was off now. He had been taking it off to take glances at it for the past few days now; his small guilty pleasure. Every time he saw the gash of raw red he felt a sense of complete calm wash over him. I t was part of the addiction. Now it was off completely and was catching his attention every few minuets. He didn't mind. The fact his arm was no longer bare pleased him. But he always saw John staring at it with a mixture of pity confusion and plain sadness. He just didn't understand. It was his way of coping with everything… it was better than drinking. This was a different type of addiction.

He lay on the sofa draped in his blue dressing gown in the foetal position, back to the world as usual. What was the point in facing them if all they did was shun him?

He shut his eyes and let his thoughts drift back to a dusty childhood memory.

He lay crumpled on his bed, a skinny sickly pale figure, trembling with some sort of emotion he had lost years ago or just couldn't feel anymore; Letting it out with involuntary shivers. Every few seconds he let out a raspy chocked vulnerable sob, drawing in air with shaky breaths his head was raised and he scanned the room, his blue eyes bloodshot and dripping with tears. Face red and his black silky curls matted and tangled covering his face. His fingers had been raking through his hair for the past few minuets whilst trying to keep his sanity together-

But wait of course he had no sanity. There was no sanity for him. He was the opposite of that.

_So smart but still somehow so stupid, completely incapable, stupid boy._

The voices were ruthless, hissing at him; at his every sob and every tear, as he tried to keep himself together. What was the point though? Everything they say is true. He was mental... unstable…

He looked up, trembling, the silence caved in on him. He couldn't take this anymore.

He felt round in his School blazer for a pencil sharpener and grabbed a screwdriver from his tool drawer. He unscrewed the nail and slid out the blade, he balanced it between his fingers for a while, admiring it. The smooth touch of the metal against his skin, the voices in his head were urging him.

He deserved this after all

Yeah. He did… of course he did…

He rolled up his sleeve and felt the cold pinch his pale skin, the sound of his own breath filled the cold large bedroom. On the floor were scattered clothes and dirty school uniform. Smothered with dirt and grass stains where he was constantly being shoved around, pinned against walls and hit with various stuff.

He let out a sigh through gritted teeth.

He shouldn't. But no reasons to support that theory came to his head.

He pressed the blade against his skin and let out a hiss as a fierce jolt of pain raced through his arm. He yelped and yanked the blade from his skin almost immediately.

There was a small groove in his skin. He let out a sniff and shook his head. The voices weren't satisfied, the pain was sudden but… nice. He pressed harder to the groove and gritted his teeth. A small whimper came from the depths of his throat and his skin succumbed to the harsh blade and blood began to drop to the surface, he watched fascinated as the blood began to dribble down his pale arm and he realised he had cut deeper than he anticipated.

"Sherlock?"

He was yanked from his blissful memory with a harsh suddenness that made his eyes snap open and a small growl emit from his throat. He didn't move but questioned the voice that called him.

"Yes?"

"You were… whimpering."

The sentence felt foreign and strange in John's mouth and it was hard for him to get out at first, but he couldn't sit listening to him jerking and whining in his sleep. It was too pathetic a sight.

"Oh."

came Sherlock's dull reply. He had taken to fantasising after he found half of his scissors and most sharp knives out of easy find. Then realising an explanation would have been a good idea he coughed and mumbled something about a nightmare about drowning. John nodded, uncertain of the truth of the statement.

He could practically taste the words being left unspoken in the air. The stillness of the flat was broken by his movements that led him swiftly back to his room, where he felt he was obliged to be when Sherlock was like this. Distant and consumed by a past he had to accept he probably wouldn't know much about. He shut his door quietly and fell back on his bed.

Shutting his eyes he tried to keep his thoughts focused on his breathing, maybe some sleep would help him pass the boring hours. But the thoughts of the kiss kept flashing in his head, never really going away.

He had felt something. He knew he had. But why? He wasn't… gay. But the second their lips touched it was like a small spark of passion, the excitement rushed through him and it was a buzz like nothing he had felt before, different from when he was out in the war but close. Like curiosity mixed with the element of danger. A dangerous concoction but one he found himself craving for. When his fingers trailed along his skin it was as if the life had been sucked out of him, all the fight and questions and he felt fully prepared to give himself away there and then. Something he wouldn't ever do. But in a matter of seconds would do willingly for Sherlock. It didn't make sense… Why him? What was it about Sherlock Holmes that made him feel alive? He let the thoughts he usually shunned away in to the darkest corners of his head swirl around with freedom in his mind. The reasons began to build. Without him he would be the one thing he despises now. He would be in an empty flat living out a painfully dull existence and slipping in to a heavy depression.

He owed him so much, for everything.

Also the way he was in his being, his dark curls falling over his face, his cheekbones, how his voice was almost always a smooth dark purr. His eyes mostly though, his eyes that pierced him and cut him in to a million pieces and drove straight in to his core. How the icy blue swirled and danced and refused to stay put when his emotions were riding high. Like him. His agility, the way his body reacted to the smallest things… even his touch.

Sherlock reacted to his touch… he sat up at this thought. Does this mean he could feel something too? He felt his heart rate quicken as the thought that Sherlock actually might be attracted back lifted his heart and set a new lease of hope and purpose to him. A machine he wasn't… but a lover maybe?

Sherlock still yet to find out what exactly happened that night he drank, it definitely held the explanation as to why John had been acting to nervous recently. How he seemed flustered around him. He needed something to use against him, blackmail? Maybe something stronger… or maybe…

"Here I got you this."

John stared up from a recent novel he had been reading. He sat in the living room which was bathed in golden artificial lamp light. The buzz of London outside their small flat window gave him a sense of comfort in the lone dark of evening when a grumpy sociopath isn't much company. And insists on deducing and telling you the end of the particularly gripping best selling crime novel you were reading.

He stared down at the tea cup and frowned. Sherlock offering him anything was a strange concept to consider let alone it happening. But it was.

"What's in it?" grumbled Watson, taking the cool beverage and sniffing it.

Sherlock let a small smile hover and tug at his lips before it vanished, leaving the ever present scowl on his lips.

"Don't be silly. Nothing. Can't I have a nice gesture once in a while?"

John sipped the coke suspiciously and could have sworn he tasted an edge to it but thought nothing of it. The fact he'd even made tea was a miracle in itself. Also the look on Sherlock's face, like he was anxious to please convinced him too. And since his inability to even make tea

It was when John stood up half hour later he realised just how drunk he was. He had felt giggly earlier but didn't think much of it due to the fact he was kind of tired.

He felt himself staggering backwards and feeling for the arms of the chair he at comfortably in moments ago only for his hands to grasp nothing and he yelped as he found himself crashing backwards on the cold floor. Groaning he opened his eyes and felt the room whirling at a slight pace, golden lights mixing with the blue of the city outside and the mixture of furniture. He clutched his head and groaned. Shutting his eyes made no difference to the fact he felt awful and about ready to heave.

How did this happen? Then he remembered, searching through his muddled thoughts it must have been the Tea Sherlock gave him… he must have spiked it with something. He reached up a hand and tried to drag himself upwards without tumbling down again and failed. He flelt two strong hands grab him from under the armpits and haul him upwards. Every sense in his body screamed at him to jerk away and see who this was, the soldier part of him did anyway. But after a few seconds he knew he recognised those hands and did everything he could to stop himself blushing. Standing him upright by his shoulders John stared back in to the ice abyss that met his gaze and felt flushed with sadness, then a slight resentment. How could he not remember? Yes he was drunk but surely it must have meant something to him? I mean it was his fist kiss probably. You remember stuff like that, it sticks in your head. Or at least a kiss with your flat mate who isn't gay… well isn't supposed to be gay. He tried to struggle out of Sherlock's grip but he had a vice like grip on his shoulders and an intense glare in his eye.

"Lemme go Sherlawk-" muttered John, the words came out slurred and sloppy. He growled but it came out more of a drunken protest.

"Now now John." Said Sherlock holding the solider steady.

"You hadn't been completely honest with me when I asked you what happened the night I got drunk. Were you?"

John was taken aback by Sherlock's tone. He had not only spiked his tea but also started speaking to him like this?

Why did he like it?

He hunched his shoulders and squirmed again in his grip shaking his head.

"Nothing happened-"

"Don't play innocent something OBVIOUSLY happened" snarled Sherlock, tired of this game now, pinned John against a wall and held him in place.

"You've been acting different, you don't look me in the eye properly anymore, your nervous, you tense if I touch you-"

Sherlock was surprised in himself for being so upset over such trivial things, but he knew he didn't like the changes and just wanted things back to the way they were.

"John just tell me it can't be that bad-"

John was shaking his head, muttering.

"I'm-I'm not…" His voice trailed off and an expression of confusion was left on his tired face.

"Not what? John your not making sense-"

"I'm not gay!" snapped the Soldier and Sherlock's grip was loosened slightly. He could have easily broken free but he didn't. He was close to Sherlock and as much as he tried to push the thought away, he liked it; being near him, close to him. Breathing in the smell of coffee and hearing the sounds of his breathing. Just his being around him was enough.

"I don't understand-"

"You wouldn't." muttered John darkly. "That night when you were drunk you kissed me Sherlock."

He didn't want to see the look of shock on Sherlock's face and barged past him but stumbled and grabbed the table to stop himself going over completely. He felt his head pounding and a sense of regret but relief that Sherlock knew.

Sherlock felt a twinge within him. The voice in the back of his head again, mirroring all the words he said himself.

"Alone protects me."

And that it had. But maybe once in a while, we need someone to be alone with us. To help the words go away and to bandage the wounds left by them.

He felt torn. A sudden rush of emotions that he hadn't felt since he was young, emotions he HAD to block out for his own good, came rushing to the surface. The rush was amazing if painful. He couldn't feel anything for years and now he could. And he knew who he felt them for. He snatched a glance at his blogger, seeing things he hadn't seen before, things he only saw when he was drunk. He saw them now. For the first time properly.

"John-"The words caught in his throat.

"Don't. I know your married to your work and I assure you it meant nothing to me." Growled John. Sherlock could tell he was lying. He still couldn't meet his gaze and he rubbed his neck as he said it was a way to assure himself. He moved swiftly over to him; Closer now staring down in to his shocked eyes. Pupils dilated, Of course. But then again his had too he supposed. He didn't know what he could possibly gain from this...

He gently cupped his Bloggers face and stared down at him.

"Why do you keep insisting on such dishonesty John?" he said softly. His whole body was shaking a slightly. He hadn't done this kind of thing before, but the way John's eyes lit up he had a feeling he was doing it right… it FELT right anyway.

Sherlock's touch seemed to sober him up quicker than anything, this was happening… really happening. He could practically see the confusion and internal battle going on inside Sherlock's head. He was feeling the same as him. John reached up and gently planted a kiss on Sherlock's lips. It was so soft it was questionable it happened. But it did and Sherlock felt himself craving, more. John could hardly look Sherlock in the eye, embarrassed. That was until Sherlock grabbed him by the waist and kissed him passionately. John showed no resistance and found himself caught up in the wildly passionate kiss, losing himself in Sherlock's mouth. Feeling his hands slide up to run his fingers through his midnight silky curls and breathing in his smell.

Sherlock had pushed him up against the table and John felt their hips crash again. He felt his whole face go red but he let out a sloppy drunken giggle and found he couldn't draw himself away from Sherlock's mouth to protest. He grabbed at Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock felt his hands sliding down John's shoulders and exploring, John let him. His skin against his made him feel… alive. The rush of warfare didn't compare to this. Like colours exploding on to a canvas his body was in harmony with Sherlock's hands as they slid all over him and he found his hands doing the same. The sound of their muffled but now heavy breathing was the only sounds in the empty cold flat.

John slid his hand in to Sherlock's and proceeded to drag him to the bedroom, Sherlock didn't protest, his curiosity led him this far so he didn't see any reason to stop now. But as John reached for the handle Sherlock grabbed his wrist and whirled him round kissing him again. His lips were unattached for a few seconds and already he felt cravings, an ache for him. Slowly he pushed against him and backed him up against the bedroom door and allowed himself to explore his mouth. John had other ideas and proceeded to plant small kisses on Sherlock's prominent jaw line and down to his pale neck. He heard the small whimpers emanating from Sherlock's mouth and remembered what little experience, -if any experience at all- he had. Pretty much any basic thing he did could turn him on right now. He proceeded to nibble at his Adam's apple and pull his hips closer to his. Sherlock couldn't stop the smirk spreading on his face and pulling John up by the scruff of his shirt collar kissed him again. John smiled against his lips and felt his hands slide up his arms, then his fingers running over the deep gash and stopped. Sherlock felt John suddenly falter and his touch over the wound. He winced. His heart rate exceeded faster than it was already going, scared. He jerked it away. Reading his thoughts John took his wrist gently, and kissing his softly on the lips whispered.

"I love you no matter what. "

"How could you love someone like me?" muttered Sherlock, hiding his face among the black silky curls that befell his face. John brushed them away, tilting his chin so he was staring right in to his eyes said;

"A few mistakes won't stop me from loving you."

"But I do this to myself on purpose!" Snapped Sherlock, jerking his arm away, John looked startled but kept his grip on Sherlock.

"I know, and I'm going to do everything I can to help… to stop whatever it is making you do this to yourself."

Sherlock looked down at him, unsure how to react. The only other person in the world knew his secret. He let out a sigh. John reached up and stroked his cheekbone and leaned in kissing him again.

Sherlock could feel the pain slipping away and slid his arms around the Bloggers waist.

"My dear Watson…" he mumbled against his warm lips. John smiled and fiddled with his satin curls playfully.

"Come on detective…" he smirked. "I'll make the pain go away."

For the first time he saw colour flush on Sherlock's cheeks as he led him to the bedroom.

**Should I continue? Reviews make me happy so please review. Thanks for reading!**


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